


The Time For Home

by jonasnightingale



Series: Heavy Accents & Swollen Ankles [3]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: Post 21x20He couldn't be that guy for her tonight - big grin, hearty laughter over bottles of beer - couldn't throw caution to the wind at his name so soft and sad on her tongue. He also couldn't completely turn away..
Relationships: Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr. & Amanda Rollins, Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr./Amanda Rollins
Series: Heavy Accents & Swollen Ankles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595524
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	The Time For Home

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by Edith Sitwell; 
> 
> “Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
> 
> \---
> 
> Unsure if this is gonna be a oneshot or continued... any pref?

The Davies case files sit untouched before him. There’s a pen poised half way to write but his mind is preoccupied with other business. With Rollins. With her hair flip and her sitter and her lips around his first name. Things had changed so much lately, and though their fights were behind them he could feel the chasm between their lives widening. But for the first time she was the one reaching out further, trying to pull them back together. She was trying to be his safety net as he had so often been hers. 

An hour later he gives up on the paper work, slides the files away and grabs his coat.

He stands uncertain before her door. His hand clenches and releases around his coat as he considers again all the reasons he’d said no. But he thinks of the softness in her voice, the fatigue deep set around her steadfast gaze; he’s missed their proximity, the moments scattered throughout the day that used to be theirs. He raises his fist to knock.

Her shirt is untucked, shoes discarded, hair thrown up in a messy ponytail. She stands looking at him with a confused tilt to her head, “Carisi?”, and he’s surprised to find himself wishing she’d said Dominick. He raises his eyes to hers and cracks a sheepish half smile with a shrug. She steps back to welcome him inside and yet he stands unsure. A deep sigh rushes out, “Is, uh, is that drink still on offer?”. She takes the coat from his hands and hangs it up. “I mean, the sitter’s long gone and I don’t have a drop in the house but… yeah o’course. Come in; I’ll put the kettle on.” 

He follows her soft padding to the kitchen, watches her hands drift uncertainly to her hair before abandoning their task and instead swiping a quick uncomfortable scratch across the back of her neck. He catalogues the new art on the fridge, finds himself a little gutted to not see his own likeness reflected in any of them. There was a time his little yellow haired avatar would pop up amongst the family portraits, right between the stick figure Rollins and the sausage-dog-esque attempt of Franny. Sometimes he hears the ghosts of her words that day, “You walked out on me”, feels the hollow loop they’d thrown him for, like he’d missed a step and free-fallen where he’d expected solid ground. Sometimes he thinks she wasn’t so off-base. 

She slides a mug - his mug - towards him, leaning forward on her elbows with her own mug enclosed in her hands to catch his eye. She’d been doing this more lately he’d noticed, holding his gaze longer. Her accent is thick when she utters a soft “Wanna talk about it?”, he darts his eyes away and takes a deep sip of his tea, “Not really.” She nods once and stands up, “Reality channel then?” and he’s grateful for the familiarity of watching her sink into the couch, the prompting head tilt she throws his way. 

This was all he’d ever wanted with her. He didn’t want the Amanda with her roll the dice smirk, leather pants tight around hips. A sitter? A drink or three? If Rollins wanted a one-night stand she’d have to find her suitor elsewhere. He wanted the Amanda with her horrible choice in television and her latest JRCD earmarked and highlighted on the table, he wanted pancakes with the girls and walks in the park with Franny. But he’s wanted a lot of things in his time, and he’s lately been starting to feel like somehow he’s veered off the path, somehow he’s lost all the time he had to make them happen.

His voice is heavy as it spills over the adverts, “I just - I guess I just thought I’d be somewhere different by now, ya know?” She watches the TV throw colours across his face, lets her gaze trace the slump of his shoulders, “Yeah, I get it.” He rolls his head to meet her eyes, lets himself catch the unchecked weariness in them, revels in the unguarded honesty he finds. He quirks his lip up in a brief attempt at a smile. She leans forward to place her mug on the table and his eyes follow her as she wordlessly disappears down the hallway only to reappear a minute later clutching a photoframe to her chest. His mouth parts in a unspoken question and she pushes the frame into his hand. “For whatever it’s worth Sonny, we’re proud of you.” His eyes flit slowly from the slight pink tint of her neck to the image - the girls, Jesse clinging proudly to the side of Billie’s stroller in front of Russo’s mural of him.

His breath catches as his fingers run around the frame. Rollins folds herself back into the crook of the cushions, watching him over the rim of her mug.


End file.
